Dvar Torah: Yom Kippur Morning (UIUC Hillel)

It was not an easy decision to start walking with a kipah six or seven years ago. I wanted it to be a constant reminder that l was walking in God's presence, that I am here to serve the world and not the other way around, that the people I interact with, from the prospective student to the University president, from Hillel's largest donor to the beggar at the street corner, from my newborn baby to my 100-year-old grandmother, we are all created in the Divine image and we deserve to be treated with dignity. It was also a symbol to the rest of the world, showing that l was serious about my engagement with my Jewish tradition, and that l was studying to become a rabbi. My reluctance, on the other hand, had to do with expressing what kind of religious Jew I was becoming, a message that was not carried by my kipah, even when I tried a gorgeous pink one.

 

But back to acknowledging God’s presence in all moments of my life, which was a huge factor in the decision. What about the moments in which I don't want anyone with me? Times in which I am about to do something that I know is wrong ‐ or simply, when I want to go the bathroom? Yeah.... The bathroom was one of my big crisis with my kipah for quite some time and it took me two or three years to stop taking my kipah off when I went there. Let’s acknowledge: there is the beauty of religion, the intricate poems we read and the lofty sermons we hear at services - and there is the messiness of life, with bathrooms and dirt, and poverty, and wars; and we are all much better served if we can keep these two worlds (the synagogue and the real world) as separate as possible.

 

Except that this approach is the very opposite of what the Jewish tradition has to say on the matter. Judaism, as a way of living, is not limited to the four walls of this room. If Torah is really meant to become a tree of life, it needs to encounter life, and this encounter can only happen when we open our whole lives to the values we talk about during religious services.  Without being with us when we meet our daily lives and dirt, and poverty, and wars, Judaism loses much of its power and significance. 

 

And before we get to the topic of sex, let me start with a story and a request. First, the story:

 

A few months ago, Lisa Brown, a Michigan State Representative, was suspended from speaking on the House Floor because she mentioned the word "vagina." Does anyone here know what she said before she got to the word vagina? Here it is the text:

 

Yesterday we heard the representative from Holland speak about religious freedom. I’m Jewish. I keep kosher in my home. I have two sets of dishes, one for meat and one for dairy, and another two sets of dishes on top of that for Passover. Judaism believes that therapeutic abortion, namely abortions performed in order to preserve the life of the mother, are not only permissible but mandatory. The stage of pregnancy does not matter. Wherever there is a question of the life of the mother or that of the unborn child, Jewish law rules in favor of preserving the life of the mother. The status of the fetus as human life does not equal that of the mother. The status of the fetus as human life does not equal that of the mother. I have not asked you to adopt and adhere to my religious beliefs. Why are you asking me to adopt yours?

And finally Mr. Speaker, I'm flattered that you're all so interested in my vagina but no means no.

 

Regardless of your position on the abortion debate, Rep. Brown was making a thoughtful claim for religious freedom in this country - and, yet, most people don't have any idea of what she said, and she is now famous nationally because of one word: vagina.

 

So, this is my request: today we are going to talk a bit about sex but, more importantly, we are going to talk about human dignity. Keep that in mind. Don’t let the word "sex" prevent you from listening to the values that we will discuss here today.

 

And, for the record, before my speaking privileges are also revoked for speaking about sex on Yom Kippur ‐ I am not the one who made the choice of topic. It's part of the traditional liturgy for this day. The text that is traditionally read on Yom Kippur afternoon is Leviticus 18, which you will find in your blue booklets and deals with rules of proper sexual behavior. There we find prohibitions against incest, and against sexual acts practiced as part of pagan religious ceremonies, and against sex with animals. We also find the following statement: “do not lie with a man in the ways of lying down with a woman; it is an abomination.” (verse22) This verse had been used as textual proof that homosexuality [at least male homosexuality) is absolutely forbidden by the Jewish religion.

 

Now... let me go on a detour and give you some background for how I think we need to read this text, and all of Torah for that matter. I do not see Torah as a lesson plan, a document telling me how to conduct my life, step by step. God created us in the Divine image and gave us the intellect and the capacity to discern right and wrong, good and bad and, therefore, make our own decisions. To stay within the realm of metaphors in the field of education, I see Torah as a set induction. Set induction are the activities the teacher does in the beginning of a class to stir people’s interest in the matter.

 

So, when I read the verse “do not lie with a man in the ways of lying down with a woman; it is an abomination," I do not read it as an absolute condemnation of same sex relationships, I read as an invitation to discuss the ethics of intimate relationship and get to conclusions that are relevant to me, my generation, my values and the world I live in. Homosexuality might even be one of the topics of the conversation, but it is certainly not the only one - and while Iwant Jewish values at the center of this process, I have the right to get to conclusions that are not the traditional ones. In the words of Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, one of the most influential Jewish thinkers of the 20th century, "Tradition has a vote, but not a veto.”

 

It might sound revolutionary, but it is the traditional rabbinic way of reading the Torah. In Deutoronomy 21:18-21, parents are instructed to take their rebellious children to the gates of the city, so they could be stoned to death. I have met many rebellious children in my life (and I might have been one myself.) but I have never heard of anyone being stoned because of this. The rabbis understood that the text was an invitation to discuss relationships between children and their parents - not a free card to physical punishment as a form of education. A rabbinic text from the 2nd century asks why these commandments were included in the biblical text and the answer is, so that you can learn it, discuss it , and be rewarded through your growth.

 

Many Reform, Reconstructionist and Conservative communities have, for many years, abstained from engaging in this conversation. Different from the perspective I am trying to transmit here, it was understood that this passage was not an appropriate reading for Yom Kippur. You won’t find it in your Reform Machzor. But this approach has been challenged in the past 10 or 20 years. In the words of Jewish Feminist Theologian, Judith Plaskow,

 

As someone who has long been disturbed by the content of Leviticus 18, I had always applauded the substitution of an alternative Torah reading - until a particular incident made me reconsider the link between sex and Yom Kippur. After a lecture I delivered in the spring of 1995 on rethinking Jewish attitudes toward sexuality, a woman approached me very distressed. She belonged to a Conservative synagogue that had abandoned the practice of Leviticus 18 on Yom Kippur, and as a victim of childhood sexual abuse by her grandfather, she felt betrayed by that decision. While she was not necessarily committed to the understanding of sexual holiness contained in Leviticus, she felt that in quietly changing the reading without communal discussion, her congregation had avoided issues of sexual responsibility altogether. She wanted to hear her community connect the theme of atonement with issues of behavior in intimate relationships, to have it publicly proclaim the parameters of legitimate sexual relations on a day when large number of Jews gather. (Judith Plaskow, ”Sexuality and Teshuva: Leviticus 18" in Beginning Anew, p. 291)

 

I don't want to scare anyone, but I find it important to talk about some of the statistics of sexual violence on college campuses:

•   One in five women are raped during their college years.

•   In two third of the cases, the attackers were classmates or friends. In 25%, they were boyfriends or ex‐boyfriends.

•   More than one in 5 men report "becoming so sexually aroused that they could not stop themselves from having sex," even though the woman did not consent.

•   In a survey of students at 171institutions of higher education, alcohol was involved in 74% of all sexual assaults. http://wwwnyu.edu/shc/pmmotion/svstat.html

 

We simply cannot afford not to have this conversation or to claim that this is not a Jewish issue! Risks are simply too high ‐ there is too much at stake.

 

Remember my kipah and my attempt to be always reminded that every person I meet was created in the Divine image and deserves to be treated with dignity. Treating with dignity, in my view, involves not humiliating or hurting another person; not manipulating people for our own satisfaction; recognizing their feelings, thoughts and desires as much as we recognize our own. Are you being treated  with dignity when you go out at night, or when you are in a loving relationship? Are you treating other with dignity? How would you define dignity? What role can Judaism have as you think about these questions?

 

Talking about these issues is not easy - and the topic itself is a complicated one. Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg, who is nowworking at the Fiedler Hillel in Northwestern University, wrote,

 

Jewish sexuality is nothing if not complex. And, perhaps, Jewish sexuality ‐ or, at least, our understanding of it - may be more complex now than ever before. Over the last generation or so, the effects of postmodernism, feminism, and queer libration have become all too keenly felt, creating something of a sea change in how we address sex and sexuality. More people than ever are talking about how to maximize sexual empowerment between consenting adults, and the belief that sexuality itself is a societal construct worthy of examination is becoming increasingly widespread. As a result of work both in the academy and in people's real lives, a whole new set of questions with which to address our time-honored traditions has become apparent. There are new ways to challenge the tradition's underlying assumptions, to think about how an ancient idea might speak to our current, ever evolving understanding of human potential, and perhaps to offer thorny sources a little sexual healing.

 

Our tradition teaches לא עליך המלאכה לגמור ולא אתה בן חורין לבטל ממנה. It is not upon you to finish the work, but you are not fee to desist from it. We are not going to finish addressing these questions here today - but l wanted to instill the seeds for this conversation to continue happening and Hillel is interested in creating the framework - a safe space for thoughtful, honest and respectful conversation on the topic of Jewish sexual ethics, aiming at both learning and getting to your own conclusions. If you would like to be part of it , please come talk to me or send me an email.

 

Gmar Chatimah Tovah - may we all be inscribed and sealed in the book of life for a year full of joy, happiness, growth and engagement with the world.

Dvar Torah: Rosh haShanah 5775 (UIUC Hillel)

When I try to understand what happened in the past few weeks in the Middle East, it is hard not to be shocked by the lack of respect and mutual understanding demonstrated by people that call themselves religious. On the one hand, we have a video that was designed to be disrespectful to Islam in the most extreme way, produced by people who were aware of its explosive content. On the other hand, a popular reaction that has no limits to its violence, and general accusations to a whole country and a way of living.

 

And although it never got to similar levels of violence, Israel experienced its episode of religious violence earlier this year, when girls were attacked in Beit Shemesh because of the allegedly lack of modesty of their clothes.

 

In common, these episodes have the belief, held by the perpetrators of the violence, that they - and they only ‐ have the absolute monopoly of religious truth. That their understanding of the mysteries of the universe are 100% right, and that everyone else is, therefore, 100% wrong.

 

The Israeli poet, Yehuda Amihai, expressed it best:

 

The place where we are right

From the place where we are right 

Flowers will never grow

In the spring.

 

The place where we are right

Is hard and trampled

Like a yard.

 

But doubts and loves

Digup the world Like a mole, a plow.

And a whisper will be heard in the place

Where the ruined 

House once stood.

 

As a rabbi, a father, a person, I am much more interested in the questions than in the answers. I have learned from great teachers who knew how to ask great questions and to acknowledge they did not have all the answers, that the possibility that they were completely wrong was very real.

 

I have found like‐minded individuals here in this community - people both inside the Jewish world and out of it, with whom I can share my questions and get their help in our mutual search for meaning in our lives. Although our paths might be very different, we are all seekers expressing similar values.

 

Today's Torah reading reminds of this search. It is the famous story of how God approached Abraham and asked him to sacrifice his son Isaac, and how Abraham agreed to God's request, only to be stopped at the very last second by an angel.

 

I have to confess I have a terrible time trying to understand this story. How could God ask such a thing from Abraham? And how could this father, who tradition says is our collective father, agree to such a senseless demand?

 

But more interesting for our purpose here today - Why was this passage chosen to be the reading of Rosh HaShanah? (and just to be clear: in more traditional services, this section is read on the second day of Rosh HaShanah. The reading of the first day is the equally troubling episode of Sarah asking Abraham to send his other son, Ishamel, away.)

 

Tradition has a couple of different answers for this question. Let's turn to the text on page 125 to see what they are:

 

1.     The very first verse in our reading announces that "There came a time when God put Abraham to the test." Rosh HaShanah is considered the day of our annual trial, and here is the link to the test.

2.     The ram . At the end of the scene, as the angel stops Abraham from killing the boy, Abraham sees a ram, which is offered as a sacrifice. The ram's horns are like a shofar, and this is the link to the Rosh HaShanah.

3.     The third traditional answer is a combination of the previous two. We are being judged, but unfortunately, we are short on good deeds that are needed for our acquittal. This is what we sing on "Avinu Malkenu”:

 

Avinu Malkeinu, be gracious and answer us, for we have little merit. Treat us generously and with kindness and be our help.

 

The shofar and our Torah reading remind God of our ancestor's Abraham, his total devotion to the point of being willing to sacrifice his own son. In this reading, Abraham passed his trial with flying colors and we are trying to get some of the benefits by association.

 

My big problem with this reading is that it takes for granted that Abraham passed his test - or at least that the Rabbis who designed the ceremony of Rosh HaShanah thought he did. It assumes a naïveté I am not willing to grant to people I envision with the highest levels of sophistication. I imagine the Rabbis who wrote the Talmud and defined our liturgy also being seekers, loving questions more than answers, and being troubled by a God that demands and a father that agrees with a son's sacrifice.

 

As I mentioned before, the traditional reading for the first day of Rosh HaShanah, is the story of Sarah sending away Hagar together with Abraham's oldest son. Again, a story that tells me more about failure than about achievement; more about the danger of deep convictions than recipes for success.

 

So.... we are left with the original question: why do we read this passage today?

 

In my opinion, this passage teaches us about failure. It is not our get‐out-of‐jail‐free card but rather the contrary: in a season in which we are asked to engage in cheshbon nefesh, or accounting of the soul, the process of introspection that helps us grow, we are reminded that we are not alone in making bad decisions some times, in failing our tests. Even Abraham, the founder of our big Jewish family, did not get everything right - we are in good company in our failure, but that should not serve as an excuse to avoid confronting our mistakes and growing as a result. We do it collectively, by reading in synagogue about times in which we really missed the mark.

 

It is also a strong warning about the kind of absolute certainty that leads people to create hate movies, or to kill in response, or to stone young kids who dress in a way that is not exactly like yours. Abraham almost lost his son because of his absolute certainty - and this story, in which God prevents him at the last minute, shows that this is not how we are expected to behave.

In his best moments, Abraham was able to argue with God in defense of Sodom and Gomora and that became a Jewish tradition. Moshe argued with God in defense of the Israelites right after the sin of the golden calf. In a famous passage from the Talmud, in which God tries to intervene in a Rabbinic dispute, God is told to back‐off, and leaves laughing at how the children have now defeated the parent. Our tradition teaches that the internal voice advising us to take extreme positions needs to be challenged and the story we just heard today reminds us all of the risk of neglecting to do so.

 

For all of this, I find today's Torah portion a great lens for us to look though at the persons we are becoming and ask if this is the direction we really want to pursue.

 

But if I've described Abraham's decision as a radical one, there is also something to be said about his faith and commitment and his willingness to sacrifice his most valued possession - his own son! - for the things he believed in. As we move from the examination of our past year into the envisioning of the new one, what are our deepest beliefs and commitments? What are we willing to sacrifice in order to remain true to our values? Our tradition also teaches us not to be a bystander, but to take an active role in improving the world we live in. What do YOU stand for and what are YOU doing?

 

This is the balance of the lack of certainty. Our tradition asking two opposite things from us ‐ to be committed without being an extremist, to take action for the things you believe in without declaring war on those with different points of view. From this space, where there is no absolute answer, may flowers, and you, and I grow in the Spring.

 

Shanah Tovah - may all of our journeys be books full of life!

 

In your booklet, there is a poem called "Sarah's choice" that retells this story from a different perspective. I find it provocative in the best sense of the word and I invite you to read it at some point during these holidays.

 

 

My journeys into the rabbinate (metaphoric and literal)

 

My long journey into the rabbinate started almost exactly thirteen (!) years ago, when Rabbi Dan Pratt (then, "student rabbi" Dan Pratt) gave a dvar Torah at Beit Daniel in Tel Aviv on parashat Korach. His approach to the text was radically different from what I had learned to expect from an encounter with a traditional and sacred text and from the role of a rabbi in that encounter. Rabbi Pratt's approach allowed me to question the way I had interacted with our tradition and started the process that eventually led me to rabbinical school. How poetic, then, that thirteen years later, I attended my first conference as a rabbi on the week of parashat Korach!

This week, the one that follows Korach, I am in a different kind of journey. Our relocation to Champaign-Urbana ended up being much more complex than we had planned. On Sunday, after we finished loading the container we had planned to use for our moving, we still had 20% of our stuff in the apartment. Karin and I rapidly considered the options and decided to get a U-Haul trailer to transport all that stuff and I would drive the 1,200 miles between Newton, MA and Chicago (with a stop in Champaign-Urbana to leave the trailer).

It seemed easy, except that I had to drive additional 230 miles in order to get the hitch installed in Portland, ME (no-one else in New England seemed to have a hitch for a Honda Fit) and we had been told already we needed to change our car's tires and brakes. All that took most of Monday and Tuesday (besides finishing packing and loading the trailer - HUGE thanks to our neighbors at Herrick House.) I finally left on Tuesday at 5:30pm. I am now writing from New Paris, OH, my second and last overnight stop before I reach Champaign-Urbana and Chicago. Karin and the kids are flying tomorrow, as it seemed totally unfair to ask a 3-year-old and 2.5-month-old to stay in the car for the 20+ hours that this trip is going to take...

So, it's just me, driving for long hours every day thinking about how life has changed in the last 6 years. Despite having been ordained almost a month ago and the rabbinic conference I attended last week, I left Boston still feeling a rabbinical student. The closer I get to Champaign-Urbana, though, the more I feel like Rabbi Cukierman. It will not take me quite 40 years to get from Hebrew College in Newton, MA to my board meeting in Chicago, but it feels that, alone in my car, I am going through the transformation my people experienced in the desert all those many years ago. Singing Yehuda Poliker and Shlomo Artzi, I have been acknowledging how fortunate I have been - especially for the people we met in the last 6 years and for having found in Karin someone as meshugah (crazy) as me, my soulmate and perfect partner.

I just pray that in this new step of our lives we keep up with meeting amazing people and experiencing new things, but that we stop collecting so much stuff!

 

Dvar Torah on Parashat Boh -- A final assignment for a Midrash Halakhah class

 “Mah ha-avodah ha-zoht LACHEM”, “what is the meaning of this ritual TO YOU?” – to “you” and not to “us”, this child asks. And you know what kind of answer the “evil” child that would ask such a question deserves. Or, at least, you think you know.

 This is how Torah instructs to answer this question: “It is the Passover sacrifice to Adonai, because God passed over the houses of Israel in Mitzrayim when God struck Mitzrayim, but saved our houses.” (Ex. 12:26)

When commenting these verses, it is not clear to the Mekhilta whether it is a good sign or a bad one. To the rabbinic mind, on the one hand, it is problematic that your children won’t know the meaning of this ritual anymore, but on the other hand, it should be celebrated sign that many generations in the future, you will have children who will be in contact with your rituals. In any case, there is no sign of the contempt that characterizes the answer to the ‘so-called” rashah. 

 

That harsher approach is developed by Mekhilta when commenting a second occurrence of a child asking about the meaning of the rituals (Ex. 13:14). In that midrash, we get the story of the four children that we know from the haggadah: chacham, rashah, tam, and she-einoh yodeah lish’ol. Three of the children receive answers that seem appropriate to their interests, but the “rashah” is all but excluded from the community: “if you had been in MItzrayim, you would not have been redeemed.”

 

The difference between what the Biblical text says and the way the Rabbis interpret it is astonishing! As we saw, the question that the Rabbis considered “evil” received a fairly innocent answer in the Torah.  There, it was the child that doesn’t ask a question that received the tougher answer (Ex. 13:8.) And nowhere we are instructed to teach the detailed norms of kashrut le-Pesach, the answer that the midrash assigns to the “good” kid.

 

A professor of mine, Rabbi Stephen Pasamaneck, used to say that “the Torah means whatever the Rabbis say the Torah means”, but it is easier for me to accept when they transform “an eye for an eye” into financial compensation than when they transform texts that instruct us to transmit the story of the formative event of our communal history into an attack on the challenging members of our own community. 

 

I don’t know why the Rabbis were so angry at their challenging children and their constant pursuance of meaning, but I find the message carried by this midrash dangerous. If I have learned anything from being a parent is how inappropriate and counter-productive this kind of chastisement is and I want to publicly reject it. I keep it at my Passover seder, as the starting point of a conversation about othering and inclusion, and how to embrace those in our communities who don’t feel totally comfortable with part of our tradition and how to create the safe space for them to explore their questions. 

 

An environment not so different from the one we live in right now in the Jewish community. Last year, Abby Backer, an undergraduate student at Columbia University, visited a synagogue in Stamford, Connecticut, together with JStreet’s president, Jeremy Ben-Ami. Abby tells that, as she was leaving the place,  

 

An elderly woman confronted [her] in the synagogue lobby. “I should spit on you!” she yelled at [her] in front of a group of shocked onlookers. “Excuse me?” [Abby] replied. Glaring, she taunted: “Are you a Palestinian? You must be a Palestinian!”[1]

 

Another professor of mine, Rabbi Reuven Firestone, who is a scholar of Islam, told us that we would be shocked if we searched our holy literature for expressions of lack of tolerance for diversity. The midrash of the four children is certainly one of these expressions, and the reaction Abby experienced in Stamford is a result of the mentality it might engender. 

 

“You are either with me, or against me.” Having grown up in a country that was ruled by a dictatorship, this kind of position is neither unknown nor tolerable to me. Denying the right of members of our community to wrestle with our tradition, with our communal policies, and with Israel, will only result in their alienation and total disengagement from the Jewish community. As a self-fulfilling prophecy, by threatening the “rashah” with exclusion from the community, we are actually sending them away.

 

As we count the days for matan Torah and, as do many of us here, for matan semichah, may we be blessed with the wisdom and the ability to foster communities that open their doors wide and welcome everyone who wants to engage.

---

[1] . http://www.jstreetu.org/latest/exclude-me-at-your-own-peril

Dvar Torá: Parashat Shemini (Templo Beth-El, São Paulo)

De acordo com o Rabino Nehemia Polen há pelo menos duas formas de ler a Torá, os cinco livros de Moisés. A primeira forma, que é provavelmente a mais intuitiva, enxerga a Torá contando a história da formação do povo Judeu até a chegada à Terra de Israel. Começamos com a criação do mundo, Adão e Eva, os patriarcas e matriarcas, Abrão e Sara, Rebeca e Isaac, Jacó, Lea e Rebeca. Vamos para o Egito, de onde saímos com Moisés, recebemos a Torá no Monte Sinai e passamos 40 anos no deserto batendo cabeça, brigando uns com os outros e com Deus, até que toda aquela geração morre e uma nova geração consegue chegar à Terra prometida. Nessa leitura, o finalzinho da Torá, as cenas em que Moisés já pode ver Israel, são o ápice, o ponto mais alto da história.

A segunda forma que o Rabino Polen usa para ler a Torá é a da narrativa do relacionamento do povo Judeu com Deus. Nesta leitura, a chegada à Terra de Israel é apenas um detalhe em uma história que tem seu ápice muito mais cedo, quando Deus entrega a Torá para o povo judeu e passa as intruções para a construção do Mishkan, do Tabernáculo no qual a presença de Deus residirá em meio ao povo. Os quarenta anos no deserto, longe de ser esse longa seqüência de brigas é vista como a lua de mel – uma lua de mel na qual as duas partes ainda estão aprendendo sobre o outro, mas mesmo assim uma lua de mel. Relacionamento: esta é a palavra chave desta forma de encarar o texto.

Uma dos atributos mais interessantes desta abordagem dupla que o Rabino Polen propõe é que estas duas narrativas, ainda que bastante diferentes entre si, são simultaneamente verdadeiras, como aqueles quadros em que você vê uma imagem diferente dependendo da forma como você olha.

Mas hoje eu gostaria de explorar um pouco essa idéia da Torá como a história de um relacionamento. Vaykrah, ou Levítico, o terceiro livro da Torá que começamos a ler nas sinagogas há três semanas não é geralmente um daqueles em que prestamos muita atenção. Eu não lembro de ter aprendido suas histórias quando estava nas escolas judaicas aqui e mesmo no semiário rabínico as pessoas preferem focar nas histórias da criação do mundo ou da luta de Jacó com o anjo. Vaykrah, e os intermináveis detalhes dos sacrifícios animais, perderam um pouco da sua atratividade agora que não temos mais o Templo e não praticamos mais sacrifícios.

É aí que a leitura do Rabino Polen fica mais interessante.... para ele, os sacrifícios são apenas o mecanismo, mas o mais importante é o princípio de estabelecermos várias formas de mantermos vivo o nosso relacionamento com Deus, qualquer que seja a forma como entendamos Deus.

É exatamente isso que o primeiro capítulo de Vaykrah estabelece para a realidade bíblica: um sacrifício diário, pra manter a chama acesa, como as pequenas ações do dia-a-dia que fazemos para agradar alguém a quem amamos. Um sacrifício para ocasiões especiais, quando queremos celebrar algo que aconteceu ou simplesmente dizer um sincero “obrigado!”. Há também sacrifícios para pedir desculpas, tanto para situações nas quais nosso erro foi involuntário quanto para aquelas em que intencionalmente fizemos algo errado.

Pra ser bem sincero, eu tenho alguns receios sobre essa centralidade toda pros sacrifícios como forma de relacionamento com Deus. Primeiro, por que eu não quero nem imaginar o retorno à prática de sacrifícios animais. Mas esse, eu acho, é o receio mais fácil de se resolver: há dois mil anos o Judaísmo tem evoluído sem a prática de sacrifícios, e o entendimento é que agora temos outros mecanismos para nossa prática espiritual.

Meu segundo receio é sobre a falta de espontaneidade em um sistema no qual tudo está planejado e prescrito. Eu sempre fui fã de dar rosas vermelhas em momentos inesperados – eu cheguei a dar 10 dúzias pra minha esposa, quando a gente tinha só um vaso em casa. Cartões românticos quando ninguém imaginava. Declarações de amor no meio do supermercado, em meio às atividades mais prosaicas.

O famoso rabino e teólogo norte-americano, Abraham Joshua Heschel, falava da capacidade de ser “radically amazed”, “maravilhado ou radicalmente surpreendido” no nosso encontro com o mundo, e perceber a presença de Deus nestes momentos. Eu realmente acredito no encontro com Deus lá fora, no mundo, em circunstâncias que não são coreografadas. Mas onde está a possibilidade para ser espontâneo no relacionamento com Deus que Vaykrah estabelece?

Há alguns meses eu tive a minha fascinação pela espontaneidade desafiada. Eu estava liderando os serviços religiosos no meu seminário rabínico e uma das alunas pediu para falar por alguns minutos sobre a mãe dela, que tinha falecido exatamente cinco anos antes. A mãe tinha criado os dois filhos sozinha e parecia ter sido realmente uma pessoa muito especial. Mas o que mais me chamou atenção nas palavras que a minha colega dizia sobre a mãe foi: “nunca houve um dia em que ela não tenha me dito que me amava.”

Eu não tinha certeza se a minha filha podia dizer o mesmo sobre mim. Claro, eu fazia coisas que eram o reflexo do amor que eu sentia por ela, mas será que a mensagem era tão clara quanto se eu dissesse todo dia “eu te amo”? Então eu mudei, e hoje todo dia eu digo pra minha filha quanto eu a amo. O que eu perdi em espontaneidade eu ganhei, eu acho, em clareza na mensagem. E eu continuo, é claro, com as outras ações para que ela não apenas escute, mas sinta quanto eu a amo.

A parashá desta semana traz um pouquinho mais de complicação pra essa história. A cerimônia pra instalar Aarón como sumo-sacerdote termina com um grande sucesso: um fogo veio de Deus e consumiu tudo que tinha sido ofertado. Em seguida, dois dos filhos de Arón, Nadav e Avihu, resolveram ir além do que tinham sido instruídos, e fizeram (na linguagem da parashá) “uma oferta de fogo estranho para Deus.” Imediatamente, eles foram consumidos por um fogo que veio de Deus. A passagem é enigmática e os comentaristas nem sempre têm tido sucesso em interpretá-la. Tradicionalmente, é entendido que eles fizeram alguma coisa errada, talvez eles estivessem bêbados quando trouxeram a oferta, talvez as suas intenções não fossem puras, talvez eles fossem radicais fundamentalistas. A falta de clareza do texto têm permitido que os comentaristas sejam criativos nas suas explicações.

Talvez, eles estivessem literalmente brincando com fogo. Existe uma certa ironia poética no fato de que eles trouxeram “fogo estranho” para Deus e foram tragados pelo fogo.

Mas talvez.... só talvez.... eles tenham tido sucesso em sua oferta espontânea. Talvez Deus os consumiu como consumiu o sacrifício que tinha sido ofertado durante a instalação de Aaron como sumo-sacerdote, um sinal de que Deus aceitava a oferta. A verdade, é que eu não tenho certeza de como interpretar esta história, o que a faz ainda mais interessante pra mim.

Qual é o balanço entre estrutura e criatividade na nossa relação com Deus? E na nossa relação com as pessoas que amamos? E com o resto das nossas vidas?

Como nos entregamos? Quando estamos dispostos a dar de nós mesmos, de verdade, para o sucesso destes relacionamentos?

E, lembrando de Nadav e Avihu, eu me pergunto se há situações nas quais eu me entrego tão completamente a uma relação – com outras pessoas, com Deus, com meu trabalho – que esta entrega absoluta – ainda que bem sucedida - acaba me anulando, me destruindo, me consumindo completamente.

Material pra pensar no Shabbat... Shabbat Shalom!

In defense of Jewish pluralism

(cross-posted from the Official Blog of Hillel at the University of Florida)

Jeff Kaplan, UF Hillel's program director, posted a message with doubts about the value of pluralism (click here to read it). This is my reponse to him:

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Dear Jeff,

This is a long answer to a very provocative post, so bear with me...

One of the things I am most passionate about our Jewish tradition is its respect for multiple (and sometimes competing) claims for truth.

• In midrashim, one of the oldest forms of interpreting our sacred Torah, the expression "דבר אחר", "another opinion", is repeated over and over and over, bringing different interpretations in conversation with each other;
• The Talmud is basically a record of sages holding opposing opinions and debating them, sometimes reaching a common conclusion, sometimes not;
• One of the most traditional forms of publishing a chumash (the five books of Moses) is called Mikra'ot Gedolot, and it presents different commentaries side by side with the Biblical text: the opinions of Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam, Ramban, Seforno and others. The amazing thing for me is that these commentaries will quite often disagree with each other – even Rashbam will frequently argue with the words of his grandfather, Rashi.

In the Jewish tradition, we don’t sweep these different perspectives under the carpet, we rather bring them to the forefront and thrive in learning from multiple points of view. As you can see, the Jewish tradition has always been very pluralistic in nature.

Pluralism is not about blending opinions and erasing differences; it does not require everyone to agree, or to hold to the same values. Pluralism is about honoring the differences, bringing them to talk to each other and growing from their encounter. Jewish pluralism is neither about asking egalitarian students to go to a minyan with a mechitzah nor about forcing Orthodox students to go to a minyan in which men and women pray side by side. Pluralism doesn't even require students to give up on their belief that a mechitzah is "the most egregious symbol of an 'oppressive and antiquated Judaism.'" (just to quote the way you defined a possible position.)

What Jewish pluralism, at its most elementary level, does ask from our students (and from us as part of the Hillel staff) is to recognize that Jewish choices very different from their/our own are also legitimately Jewish and belong in our building. A more sophisticated implementation of pluralism creates the space for people holding different opinions about the mechitzah (or the role of women in religious life) to talk with sincere curiosity about each other's point of view.

That does not mean that Jewish pluralism cannot have boundaries - the truth of the matter is that we always have them and it is very healthy to make these boundaries explicit. What are the positions that, if held by someone, would place him/her outside our tent?

At the Rabbinical School of Hebrew College, the decision was made when the program was created eight or nine years ago that it would be pluralistic, yet religious and egalitarian. This decision, with which I don't necessarily agree, in practice prevented Orthodox and Secular students from joining our program. Despite that, it brings together an amazing breadth of opinions that makes for very interesting, sometimes challenging and difficult, conversations. Most of the time, you will find multiple perspectives on any subject you propose at our Beit Midrash (hall of study) - but the unifying factor that brings all of us together is our commitment to learning from each other and in holding the premise that we all have a seat at the table.

Another very good reason to be pluralistic is that it is much more engaging that settings in which everyone agrees. This week in school, for example, we heard about Israel from Danny Gordis and from Naomi Chazan, very different perspectives that illuminated our own and were very really thought-provoking!

Some years ago, before I started studying at Hebrew College, I learned a text that presented the process of Revelation at Sinai as a projection of the "Heavenly Torah" (a mystical object that God keeps for Godself) into our human reality. If you remember your physics' classes from high-school, projections depend not only on the object being projected (the Heavenly Torah, in our case) but also on the surface on which the projection is being cast (in our metaphor, the people present at Sinai served as the surface.) The fact that they were all different from each other made Revelation different for each one of them and for each one of us, perhaps the source for the honoring of different perspectives in our Jewish tradition. God did not ask people to get rid of their differences so everyone could receive the same message, rather God took advantage of the variations on the "projecting screen" to give us a more vibrant, colorful and engaging Torah than we would have had otherwise.

Likewise, our student denominational groups don't need to disperse for our Hillel to be truly pluralistic; they are co-responsible for the richness of the Jewish experience we provide to our students. As long as we all agree in honoring the different perspectives we bring to our Shabbat dinner table after services are over, our disputes will all be "for the sake of Heaven." (*) Let them continue and let's celebrate them!

(*) A famous text from Mishnah Avot 5:17 states that "Any dispute which is for the sake of Heaven, shall in the end be of lasting worth; but that which is not for the sake of Heaven, shall not in the end be of lasting worth."

Dvar Torá: Shabat Shuvá (Templo Beth-El, São Paulo)

Quem tem acompanhado os jornais nos últimos dias, deve ter notado a bagunça criada nos Estados Unidos pelo Reverendo Terry Jones, da pequena cidade de Gainesville, duas horas ao norte de Orlando na Florida. Jones, que até algumas poucas semanas não conseguia atrair mais de 30 pessoas para seus serviços religiosos, gerou uma polêmica mundial quando prometeu queimar cem cópias do Korão, o livro sagrado do Islamismo, uma religião que ele considera “do mal.” Que ninguém se engane, o Rev. Jones é muito claro em suas posições contra qualquer religião não cristã; em um recente depoimento a uma corte na Florida, ele declarou considerar não apenas o Islamismo, mas também o Hinduísmo, o Budismo e o Judaísmo religiões do diabo.[1]

A data que o Reverendo Jones escolheu para o seu protesto é particularmente delicada. Amanhã, marcamos nove anos dos ataques terroristas de nove de setembro às torres gêmeas em Nova York, ao Pentágono e a outros alvos nos Estados Unidos. Uma data que, para muitos, marca o início de uma guerra declarada pelo mundo islâmico contra a civilização ocidental. Uma ferida ainda aberta não apenas para os milhares de parentes e amigos das 2,977 vítimas inocentes dos ataques, mas também para milhões de pessoas que sentiram que sua liberdade estava sob ataque. E certamente, o fato de todos os terroristas justificarem suas ações em valores que eles consideravam ditados pelo Islã, gerou por todo o mundo uma forte onda de intolerância contra muçulmanos; onda na qual a queima agendada pelo Reverendo Jones seja um dos eventos emblemáticos.

E antes que alguém diga que este é um problema limitado aos Estados Unidos, ou à Inglaterra, onde houve o ataque no metrô, ou à Espanha, onde os trens foram atacados, deixe-me lembrar que vivem no Brasil cerca de 100 mil judeus, 1 milhão de muçulmanos e 9 milhões de descendentes de árabes cristãos. A questão do relacionamento da comunidade judaica com a comunidade árabe em geral e com os muçulmanos em particular tem que estar no topo da agenda comunitária judaica também no Brasil.

Para nós judeus, a questão traz outros agravantes. Historicamente, nossa relação com o mundo islâmico foi muito boa, bem melhor do que na Europa Cristã onde sofremos com a Inquisição, as Cruzadas e os pogroms. Foi na Espanha e em outras regiões sob o domínio árabe que o mundo judaico atingiu um dos seus pontos de maior desenvolvimento antes da era moderna: foi lá que alguns dos maiores intelectuais do mundo judaico viveram, gente como Maimônides, Ibn Ezra, Yehuda HaLevi, Bahya ibn Paquda viveu e desenvolveu o seu trabalho. No entanto, nos últimos cem anos, o conflito árabe-israelense azedou este relacionamento e hoje não são raros os casos de conflitos entre judeus e muçulmanos, mesmo fora do Oriente Médio. A imagem de que o Islã é uma religião radical (ou xiita, pra usar um termo relativamente recente da língua portuguesa) está certamente arraigada entre uma grande parcela da comunidade judaica em todas as parte do mundo.

Mas será que é assim que as coisas tem que ser? Será que o Islã é realmente “do mal” como diz o Rev. Jones? Ou será que é apenas preconceito que, de tão comum, já passa despercebido?

O Rabino Reuven Firestone, que foi meu professor em Los Angeles e é um especialista na cultura árabe e religião Islâmica, conta que em uma comparação entre o Tanakh, a Bíblia cristã e o Corão, o Corão é o que têm a maior quantidade de textos pregando a tolerância a opiniões distintas. Apesar disto, em um recente artigo ele contou que costuma perguntar a seus alunos na Universidade do Sul da Califórnia o que eles acham que vai acontecer quando, em um filme, se escuta o som de um imã chamando para a reza ou se vê o minarete de uma mesquita. “Algo ruim acontecerá,” seus alunos lhe dizem[2]. Alunos que sabe do que falam, pois estudam na melhor faculdade de cinema dos Estados Unidos e cresceram acostumados com filmes populares tais como a série Indiana Jones ou o desenho Aladin da Disney, nos quais árabes são invariavelmente retratados como maus.

Os velhos preconceitos somados aos ataques terroristas nos Estados Unidos, na Espanha e na Inglaterra, geraram uma onda de oposição ao Islã difícil de segurar. Ahmadinajad, o xeique Nasrahla do Hizbolah e Bin Laden tampouco ajudam a criar um ambiente de tolerância religiosa. Sem nos darmos conta, somos impregnados pelo preconceito contra aquilo que desconhecemos e tememos. Em momentos como esse, em que nossa emoção toma conta e fica difícil se livrar dos preconceitos, eu sempre sugiro respirar bem fundo e tentar ganhar um pouco de perspectiva. Lembrar dos momentos da história em que foram os nossos livros que foram queimados, na Inquisição do século 15 e no regime Nazista do século 20; lembrar da época em que fomos nós que não pudemos construir nossas sinagogas, consideradas ofensivas à crença oficial.

O mundo muçulmano certamente tem muito a avançar para impedir que seus radicais dominem a forma como eles interagem e são percebidos pelo ocidente. Para usar a terminologia judaica desta época do ano, eles têm muita chesbon nefesh pra fazer. Mas enxergá-los como radicais incuráveis, com os quais não há qualquer possibilidade de diálogo, cujos objetos sagrados devem ser queimados e as mesquitas proibidas, não ajuda, de forma alguma, a maioria liberal muçulmana a ganhar esta batalha interna.

Neste Shabat Shuvá, que o diálogo e a tolerância sejam a marca das nossas comemorações do nono aniversário do 11 de setembro. De forma alguma, deixemos a provocação ditar o tom.

Shabat Shalom. Shaná tová e chatimá tová.

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[1] http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-31727_162-20015853-10391695.html

[2] http://www.religiondispatches.org/archive/atheologies/3176/the_ground_zero-sum_game__